November 6, 2002

How did I get here? How did I get here from there? Is it the exercise? The meds? The easy city life?

"I can't handle negative people," I say to Eileen over our lunch. I hear myself and know it is me, but wonder how this new me arrived. I know she is thinking the same thing; maybe not, though. Maybe she saw the new me emerge. Maybe she watched me climb from the slime of negativity that I used to be covered with. I know it wasn't like flipping a switch. I know this. I wish I could rewind my life and find the exact moment when I went from a truly negative, unhappy, mean person to this new me. I want to see it happen. I want to watch the change. I want to learn how it happens so that I can write a book or become some sort of self-help crazy, like Richard Simmons or Dr. Phil. I want to travel the country with the tape and the recipe for complete life change.

A co-worker sits down in my office and huffs and puffs and complains. I don't turn my head. What can I say to him? I deal with problems. Jason avoids solutions. I usually say, "yeah, that sucks." But I don't feel it, I can't say it today. I tell him I'm sorry. I smile. I let him vent. But inside I wish I could tell him to chill out. Nothing can be this bad. Terrible things happen to people everyday and Jason's today is nowhere near terrible. If I had that tape, I'd make him watch it. Twice.

I used to hate people like the new me. Now, Scoresby asks me how I am and I say, pretty or lovely or wonderful or any number of positive things. He laughs when I do this, and I wonder if he still sees the old me sometimes. Maybe he gets a glimpse of her when I am sleeping. We talk about this in the cold rain and he is shocked that I would worry about it. "I don't ever worry about you being that unhappy again, silly." I smile a little and hope he is right.

My tummy gurgles, and I grip the bridge of my nose and rest my elbow on the desk, internally attempting to wake up. Three cups of highly sugared coffee has done little but make me feel jumpy, and the warm sunlight streaming through the window is heating my back and making me drowsy.

A low murmur of good natured conversation floats across the office, and the weekend has become a comfortable haze of memory. All the faces of people have become jumbled and confused, and I am left feeling like I have just been through my own 'Fear and loathing in Las Vegas' even though I only had a small amount of alcohol, and limited amounts of other substances.

Lack of sleep is blurring my conscious thought and memory, and the drift in my mind is only counterpoint by the shallow ache in my shoulders, the rumbling in my stomach reminding me to eat, and a brain fuzz that I otherwise don't really want to disappear.

Good natured cheer swims inside me, and nothing - including the office dickhead (whom usually I would like to wrap a large iron bar around his forehead, heat it, and the do something else to him) can't seem to budge it.

Work has avoided me this morning, I have been cast adrift in the office, left to sit here and do nothing, strangely feeling that I might not have attended today, and nobody would have been the wiser. I have chatted amiably with a few persons who strolled past my desk on some errand, and then leaned over my partition, but they all fled quickly. They are seemingly able to smell an air of 'nothingness' around me, and some weird work ethic sucked them back to the place where they needed to rush off.

It's lunchtime now, and I feel I might go find some quiet tree to sit under and watch the city walk by on its luncheon break. I will enjoy that snoozy feeling that I am untouchable and work can go shove itself firm where the sun does NOT shine. The sun will warm me, and I might sleep, but mostly I will enjoy it.

Have a pleasant day my friends mine is wonderful.

---

The busker stood in the shade of the Myers awning. His guitar slung around his stomach, his flannelette shirt blue, and his bushman's hat pushed high on his head. Afore him utop a dog blanket, lay a bored looking Blue Heeler, another Bluey stood 2 feet in front causing pedestrians to walk around it. It also looked bored. The couple of broken eucalyptus limbs looked limp in the midday heat, but finished off the 'Australiana' look..

He strummed his guitar and started into 'How much is that doggy in the window'. His accent was broad and guitar work sloppy but he was proud and confident:

"... HOW.. Much is that doggy in the window?
The one with the waggly ta-EL .." *strum guitar, pause*
"...waggly TA-IL ..." *stum guitar, look at dog pause*
*STRUM* ".. TA-il ... COMMON BLUE!" *pause*
".. WAGGLY ta-IL!" *STRUM*
*Dog looks round* "WOOF WOOF"
".. HOW .. Much is that doggy in the window ..
...I do hope that dog is for SA-IL" *strum*
*Pause - look at dog, about to say/repeat something...*
"WOOF WOOF!"

Sad. FUNNY! - but sad. I walked on, and heard a repeat of the above. I noticed the busker had about $3-$4 in change in his dog dish.. .

OK, so here's some opinioned (crazy) rant.

OK, maybe it's not crazy but I'm worried it'll sound crazy

,

So what if perfection is an unattainable goal? So what if life itself doesn't really have a defined meaning other than to be happy and comfortable. I sometimes wonder how human worth is judged and should be judged. Are there people who fundamentally shouldn't be here? Are there degrees to which we fundamentally do not belong in the cosmos? Should we manifest this, saying to the world "Yes, I am someone who doesn't belong; I am soneone who thinks he is better than you. I do not belong, and I am here. Or do we all belong? I fail to see that this can be true. The only reason to believe in God is that he or she wouldn't play favorites.

...but our Gods are selfish creatures.

They demand that we pay attention to them, no matter where they lead us, or what reality they craft for us to work within or think about. No person truly in love with the world would trust another; the cost is too high. We must remain apart and alone.

The only thing worse than being life itself is...?

South Park quote of the day: "Dude! That's some fucked-up shit!"

---

So today I heard someone else use my line.

"Ever hear of Seals and Crofts? You know... 'Summer Breeze... makes me feel fine..' Old 70's pop duo?"

Some exposition: For the past couple months I have been practically living in the smoking room of the cafe. There is where I perch myself after I get off work, right next to the Men's Room with my laptop unfurled on a two-seater table with my feet outstretched so no one else will feel compelled to intrude on my pseudo privacy. Yes, I've been antisocial of late. So what?

So, two weeks ago there's this couple of girls, students, who came in late, late, late at night- and kept coming back. A tall brunette and a short redhead. The redhead (of course) got my immediate attention. She's attractive and nice to look at, she's outspoken, intelligent, witty, charming and fun. The cafe being what it is, a social mecca in disguise, I've had plenty of conversations with these young ladies. I have been caught, countless times, admiring the view of this cute redhead. Her name is Jaimie. En la francais, that means "I Love" if you put in an apostrophe right after the "J."

And she's been a willing participant in this silent flirtation, occasionally looking back at me and smiling coyly, cutely. What fun, right? Yes, she's unbelieveably too young for me, but it's nice to flirt.

Tonight I am sitting here at the cafe (where else would I be?) and she's talking to some newly-met friends, getting to know each other. One of the people she's talking to announces that they are from Texas. "Really?" Jaimie says. "My step-dad is from Texas, too. Which part are you from?"

"San Antonio," says the other young woman.

"Really?" Jaimie replies excitedly. "So is he! Ever hear of Seals and Crofts?...."

I had been sitting quietly in front of my laptop, typing away and reading the odd node on E2, totally oblivious to the world around me. But when those words which I am so used to hearing from my own lips passed through hers, I was all ears. I stopped typing and turned bodily in her direction, raptly paying attention. I was staring at her openly, with my eyebrows arched in surprise.

She noticed my stare. "What?" she asked.

I blinked once, twice and then asked, "Is Dash Crofts really your step-dad?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because Jim Seals is my uncle. Dan Seals is my dad. My dad lives next door to yours. I think we met once, years ago, just after your mom married Dash. You were about nine years old at the time." Her mouth hung open, aghast at this information. I could almost see the words transcribe themselves across her forehead, Oh, shit! And I've been flirting with this guy! Small fucking world! To confirm my claim, I told her the name of the street our parents live on and showed her my ID. I added a special touch by mentioning her step-brother and his wife by name, pointedly telling her that I lived with her step-brother for a year quite some time ago. I told her this while watching her eyes get big as saucers. In some strange way, I am now kind of disappointed. This might mean the end of some healthy flirtation which I was really enjoying dammit.

My family affairs have, for the first time, stealthily snuck into my lame-duck love life. I don't know if I should feel depressed, angry or confused. Faizi, her step-brother and Dash Croft's adopted son, is my cousin, you see. I've been flirting with my cousin's step-sister. Meanwhile, another cousin of mine is married to my sister (not blood related to me, though... it's an even longer story).

Question: who's the forbidden fruit here? And why does this shit have to occur only in Tennessee?

Another day after an election, another chance to witness democracy in action. I have always wondered how exit polls work, I have no background in stats, so its always been a question to how it works. Everyone I talked to yesterday had not been asked any questions about voting, yet the races in my area were called before results were in. I wonder, was anyone here that voted last night asked to take part of an exit poll? I have voted in the last four elections, all without being asked any questions afterwards. How do they select which districts to poll? Better yet, in the public surveys you hear, example "only 45% of the country thinks Bush is doing a good job", I have never ever been asked what I thought about that. How come?

In other news, I'm glad my thoughts about the election being decided in the courts ended up wrong. I am glad to see most things went well, besides the reported problems.

Work today is busy for some reason, a lot of phone calls, and even more voicemail. My biggest pet peeve is when you are listening to a voicemail from someone about a problem and the same person calls and leaves another message about the same problem. It does not make me want to help solve their problems.

Picture the scene, dear reader: A beautiful English autumn morning in Hampshire, the rain driving, concrete and metal all around, I walk into Booker's Cash and Carry dressed like the frickin' man from del Monte. It was just an accident: I didn't think about the colours when I threw my clothes on this morning. For some reason, this seemed to imbue me with extra authority this morning, causing the cash-and-carry staff to defer to me rather than the more darkly clothed William, despite the fact that he's rather more used to our arrangements with Bookers.

3 fuckin' hours buying crap for my hall shop. Now I have inflicted some of that time wasting on you. It's not nice, it's not clever, but fuck it.

Right. Today is when I get my GCSE certificate. And I am fucking terrified.

Terrified of what, you ask? It's just a peice of paper right? it's not like it's gonna eat you like the minsicule piece in the machine of education like you are. And your right. But that isn't what I'm afraid of.

It's the fact that I have to go on to the stage, in front of virtually everyone in the year (around 150 students), pick up this certificate from the news reporter dude (his name slips my mind), shake his hand, possibly answer questions from him, then walk back down to my seat. If you have ever been in this situation, you know what I'm on about.

What if I trip and land on my face? Or the flowers? Or the news reporter dude and ruining his (I guess) rather expensive suit? Laughing stock of all time, that's what will happen. I'm glad that speeches aren't neccessary, but I'm still pretty scared.

And what if the guy asks me questions? What the hell am I supposed to say? Will I freeze there and then? Do I make an attempt at a joke? What the hell?! I REALLY hope he doesn't ask me one. I am told they will be along the lines of "what do you want to do when you grow up?" or something like that. A lot of my freinds have been joking about this, planning to say "I wanna be just wike wu when i gwow up, Mr News Wepoter man!" Although, for all I know, he could ask me on my opinion on the current Diana's butler trial or something.

But when that's over, I have to sit in my seat for another hour or something. Godammit. Your not allowed to talk, which is fair enough considering it would be rude, but what do they expect us to do for that amount of time? Read our certificate over and over?

They expect us to stay for "refreshments" in the cafteria. I'll more likely be jolting down the road at a couple of hundred an hour hoping to get home.

Wish me luck.

ROSELAND-BARNES, Michael-- Suddenly in Toronto, on Monday, November 4, 2002, at the age of 32. Beloved son of Gary and June Barnes. Loving brother of Leah Barnes and her husband Luis Cardoso. Cherished grandson of Audrey Roseland Barnes Laird (nee Weiler) and Joan Stapleton. Mike will be fondly remembered by many aunts, uncles, cousins and dear friends. They will always cherish his energetic spirit, healthy attitude and love of life. Family, friendship, nature and music were always close to him. Friends may call at the Turner & Porter Yorke Chapel, 2357 Bloor St. West, at Windermere, east of the Jane subway, from 6-9 p.m. Thursday. Prayers 7 p.m. Thursday. Funeral Mass at Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, 3055 Bloor St. West (west of Royal York Rd.), on Friday, November 8, 2002 at 1 o'clock. Cremation to follow.

--The Toronto Star, Wednesday, November 6, 2002.

My friend Mike Barnes died on Monday. He suffered an aneurysm while working out at the gym.

I remember Mike as a fun-loving party guy: the kind of dude who's never in a bad mood. He had a huge case of the sillies that was quite charming.

Mike played all manner of percussive instruments. I think he was actually drumming professionally for a long while. Back in the day, he collaborated with various people in that social circle on many musical projects. Amongst those was Ontario Hydro, a rather enjoyable jam-band of some local distinction. (I'm listening to some of their live stuff right now. Sweet and tasty, baby.) He also collaborated with me on one small electronic project's percussion. (I'm going to listen to that next.)

I happened to have an appointment with my GP today, and I told him that my friend had died of an aneurysm. He said that there's no way to predict when something like this is going to happen. Also, they (the medical community) don't know exactly what causes these things. He mentioned many factors that, at one time or another, were though to cause this; eventually all these theories were debunked.

All I know is that an aneurysm is no way for a drummer to die. It would have been more appropriate if he had spontaneously combusted on stage, or died in a bizarre gardening accident.

We'll miss you, Barnes.

The following is an appeal to the citizens of Everything2. I know that what you are about to read may sound insane, and outlandish, but I am not playing any sort of prank. I am completely serious.

My girlfriend just moved to my city from California. We began dating about 3 weeks ago, and the relationship is fairly strong, though she is very very shy about herself, and around others.

She met another girl, a member of my circle of friends, and they had almost immediate chemistry. One morning before school, they were talking in hushed tones, and I overheard snippets that made me suspicious. I gently confronted them about these suspicions, and about a week later, my girlfriend wrote me a note that basically confirmed my thoughts.

My girlfriend can see, talk to, and interact physically and verbally with ghosts. The aforementioned friend can too. In fact, this friend has an entire ghost family she knows. The one my girlfriend knows is apparently jealous, and here is the reason I know they can interact physically with the living.

This ghost has apparently raped my girlfriend.

Furthermore, she was apparently possessed last night, and was forced to write a note on behalf of the rapist ghost, that basically told me to stay away from her, “or else”.

I know this all sounds crazy. I have been struggling with these events for the past week, going back and forth between total belief and half-skepticism. I’m torn, because these girls are completely sincere, I’ve never seen them so serious, my girlfriend especially, she has been believably and understandably shaken. I feel so helpless, because here she is being abused, and by whom? Paranormal spiritual beings that are apparently amoral and not bound by all of the laws of physics.

I have been wrestling with my logical mind and my heart, my mind saying that this could be a psychological problem, and my heart telling me that I could be completely wrong and alienate my girlfriend. I can’t tell her she’s imagining things, because I don’t fully understand and comprehend the presence of spirits, and I don’t doubt the possibility that there are those who can. If it was just her, and not her and the friend that could, with totally separate experiences, I could maybe convince myself to completely doubt. But I’m letting my emotions and my trust in her win out. I have pledged to support her until I have been shown that what’s going on is a hoax.

The events of the past week have brought me to the end of my rope, and I now turn to the noders of Everything2. If anyone here who reads this can relate to the description of my experiences, or has had paranormal experience, please, I beg of you, email me or IM me on AIM. If you’ve seen spirits, can talk to ghosts, have been abused by ghosts, or anything similar, please help me out here.

See the bottom of this daylog for my email and AIM name.

I know this sounds insane, but I am between a rock and a hard place, and I want to make sure this is completely phony before I become a complete skeptic.

I am dead serious about this, make no mistake. If you want to tell me I’m insane and that my girlfriend and friends should be put in a mental institution, don’t waste your time.

Thank you, Everything2 citizens, for reading. Happy noding.

Email : JDooty1234@juno.com AIM : JDooty2234

Early speculation on my entry into my slut phase reveals that I'm more willing to fool around than ever before. What shocks me is that I've been seeing someone for almost two months, and yet I had no problems or regrets about messing around with a guy in the steam room of my best friend's gym less than two weeks ago. The guy I've been dating...he and I haven't really discussed exclusivity yet. And although I like him, I'm most certainly not twitterpated.

This is all so confusing. I just can't find a rational explanation for this shift in my morals. Once upon a time, I focused all my energies on one person and one person only. Now I find myself in what would seem to be a relationship with someone, yet I'm compelled to respond to the attention I'm getting from others. This can't be good for my karma.

Am I turning into the people I despise, one of the whores of West Hollywood?

Wednesday, November 6, 2002

---

Awakening...

Red bird singing like a vixen

Sleep interrupted
As a bullet
Through my dream

My unconscious
Meets the light
The volatile orb
Pushed me to life

Beast emerges
Conscious takes Over.
Oh, The drudgery of
The everyday thrust

Why, light Have you come?

You know my real heaven
Is behind my eyes
Work be gone!

My true love is the moon, the drunken nightingale, and the bed I seize at dark.

My life is to dream
My work is to believe,
My love is to sleep.

---

And so here I am, at the end of one of those days. You know the sort. Actually, I had a terrible falling out with my boss... and the deal fell through. What deal? The big one. The deal that I'd been working on for months. We had big, bad, money breathing people coming, too. And this would happen in the town dedicated to gossip. I feel depressed at his failure to see what he's done, but at the same time I have a much lighter heart and mind, as I send out my resume to potentially lovelier, nicer, brighter, more together, intelligent companies. (Yes, I walked out on him today, quitted on the spot... to his rage.) I want to be appreciated. I want to love my job. Good lord, that must be plausible?

Clearly, I'm experiencing a Mid-Week Crisis^TM.